Confirm the designs

"We're ready," you say, removing the neural crown and setting it aside. "Lock both designs and begin."

Kim nods, her fingers dancing across the tablet. "Designs locked and transmitted to the suspension tanks. The technicians are bringing them up now."

The apartment door opens, and two figures in Helix BioSolutions uniforms enter carrying what look like oversized metallic coffins on hovering gurneys. The suspension tanks gleam under the apartment's cheap lighting, their surfaces covered in biometric sensors and nanite injection ports.

"I'm David," says the older technician, a stocky man in his forties with the slightly-too-perfect skin of someone modified. "This is Yuki." He gestures to his partner, a young woman with platinum hair and violet eyes—definitely not natural. "We'll be monitoring your procedure for the next seventy-two hours."

Morgan stands frozen, staring at the tanks. Their breathing has gone shallow.

"The process is straightforward," Kim explains, pulling up a holographic display from her tablet. "You'll each enter a tank. We'll induce unconsciousness, then flood the system with nano-suspension fluid. The nanites will begin cellular restructuring immediately. Estimated completion time is seventy-two hours for modifications this extensive."

"Will it hurt?" Morgan asks, voice barely above a whisper.

"No," Yuki replies, her tone clinical. "You'll be unconscious throughout. When you wake up, you'll be in your new bodies. There will be some disorientation initially as your nervous system adjusts to the new configuration."

David opens the first tank, revealing a pale blue gel-like substance inside. "Morgan, you're in this one. Riley, you're in the other. You'll need to strip completely—the nanites work best with direct skin contact."

Morgan's hands shake as they begin unbuttoning their shirt. Their seventy-three-year-old body—the one they've lived in for decades—is about to be erased, replaced by the tiny, helpless, hyper-sexualized form you've designed.

"Riley," Morgan says quietly, shirt falling to the floor. "I'm scared."

You step closer, helping them with their belt. "I know. But in three days, you'll never hurt again. Never age. Never feel anything but pleasure."

Morgan nods, continuing to undress. Soon they're standing naked—loose skin, age spots, the geography of a life lived in a failing body. They look at you with those old eyes one last time.

"I trust you," they say.

Kim gestures to the tank. "Whenever you're ready."

Morgan climbs into the suspension tank, the blue gel rising around their body. David attaches monitoring leads to their chest, temples, and spine. "Lie back and breathe normally. The sedation will begin in thirty seconds."

You watch as Morgan's eyes flutter, fighting to stay open, to keep looking at you. Then they close, and their body goes slack in the gel.

"Nano-infusion beginning," Yuki announces. The tank hums to life, its surface glowing with diagnostic readouts. "Cellular restructure initiated. Seventy-two hours to completion."

David turns to you, gesturing at the second tank. "Your turn, Riley."

You stand and begin unbuttoning your shirt, the fabric sliding away from your sixty-eight-year-old body. The apartment feels too warm suddenly, or maybe that's just your own nervous energy. Morgan lies unconscious in their tank, the blue gel obscuring their old form while nanites begin the slow work of destruction and reconstruction.

Your pants join the pile of discarded clothing. Underwear next. Soon you're standing naked in front of three strangers, your aging body on full display—the slight paunch, the loose skin, the way gravity has won its long war against your flesh. In seventy-two hours, none of this will exist.

"The tank on the right," David says, gesturing. His tone is completely neutral, professional. He's seen hundreds of bodies, thousands probably. Yours is just another temporary configuration about to be erased.

You climb into the suspension tank, the gel cool against your skin. It's thicker than water, more viscous, and it rises around you as you settle into position. The temperature adjusts quickly, matching your body heat until you can barely feel the boundary between yourself and the fluid.

Yuki leans over you, attaching monitoring leads. One on your chest, cold metal against your sternum. Two at your temples. One at the base of your spine. "These track your vital signs and neural activity throughout the procedure," she explains. "If anything goes wrong, the system will alert us immediately and halt the process."

"Has that ever happened?" you ask.

"Twice in four thousand procedures," she replies. "Both times the clients had undisclosed medical conditions. Your screening came back clean. You'll be fine."

Kim appears at the edge of the tank, her modified face looking down at you. "Last chance to change anything, Riley. Once the sedation begins, the designs are locked permanently."

You think about Morgan in the other tank, already under, their body being rebuilt into the tiny, helpless thing you designed. You think about the tall, powerful form waiting for you on the other side of sleep.

"No changes," you say. "Begin the procedure."

"Initiating sedation sequence," David announces.

Something cold floods the gel around you, and your vision starts to blur. You try to keep your eyes open, to watch the apartment ceiling one last time with these eyes, but the chemicals are too strong. The world fades to grey, then black.

The last thing you hear is the hum of the tank coming to life, and Yuki's voice: "Nano-infusion beginning. Cellular restructure initiated. See you in three days, Riley."

Then nothing.

Consciousness returns slowly, fighting through layers of fog. Your body feels wrong—too large, too heavy, too present. Every nerve ending is firing, sending signals your brain struggles to interpret.

You open your eyes.

The apartment ceiling looks sharper than it should, colors more vivid. You try to sit up and your new body responds with startling power, muscles engaging smoothly. The gel drains away around you as the tank recognizes you're awake.

"Easy," Kim's voice says. "Give yourself a moment to adjust. Your nervous system is still calibrating."

You look down at yourself and see the body you designed—tall frame, broad shoulders, defined muscles, everything exactly as specified. Your hands are larger, stronger. You flex them experimentally and they respond perfectly.

"How do you feel?" David asks, offering a towel.

You stand, the tank opening fully, and realize you're a full head taller than you were. The apartment looks smaller from this height. Your body feels like a weapon, coiled and ready.

"Powerful," you say, and your new voice is exactly as you designed it—deep, commanding, resonant.

Across the room, Morgan's tank begins to drain.